


the path I must trudge

by wearethewitches



Series: I am weak, my love and I am wanting [6]
Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Angst and Humor, DESTINY!!!, Fate & Destiny, Geraskier Week, Insecure Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, M/M, Minor Character Death, Self-Esteem Issues, late entry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-13
Updated: 2020-03-13
Packaged: 2021-02-28 21:14:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,849
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23123833
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wearethewitches/pseuds/wearethewitches
Summary: A seer queen tells Geralt of Rivia how he'll find his greatest of loves.~(geraskier week, day seven: destiny)
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: I am weak, my love and I am wanting [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1632970
Comments: 15
Kudos: 343





	the path I must trudge

The gold is in hand.

The curse is broken.

“Wait, please.”

Geralt stops, hearing the rasp of the dying queen, how her lungs stutter and bubble as she inhales. She can leave her tower if she wishes, but whether it will do any good to her in her state, Geralt doubts it. _At least she shall know the outside world._

“Would you like me to carry you outside?” He asks her, turning his head. The queen hesitates, then nods. Geralt puts down his gold and makes his way to her bedside, pushing back her covers and grabbing the nearest throw, wrapping it around her shoulders before picking her up. The queen heaves, curling up in her pain, quiet as he walks her out of the room she has spent the last twenty years in.

Outside, her daughters – the ones who cursed her to remain in the tower – stand with grave faces, stumbling out of his way when they see their mother in his arms. Geralt hates them. They would lock up an old woman – a dying woman – just because they fear the words that come out of her mouth.

 _She told me I would lose my son from my jealousy,_ the first daughter had said. Geralt watches a young boy see his grandmother and look to his mother in betrayal, bursting into tears.

 _She told me,_ said the second daughter, _that I’d fall from the very tower I’d imprison her in._

The second daughter trips backwards, fumbling for a grip on the smooth stone walls. Beneath her feet, Geralt hears crumbling and more at her back, when she slams against the brittle stone. Geralt doesn’t look back when shrieks bear out, the tower caving in as the spell loses the last of its power.

In his arms, the queen stares up at the ceilings of her castle, painted in blues of the outside sea.

 _Mother said her final days, she would be surrounded by blue._ The third daughter had told him in a whisper. _I didn’t agree with them. I love my mother so much, Witcher. Please believe me. I painted her room in greens and yellows and all the colours of the rainbow, all except blue-_

He carries her far, until the castle is but a speck on the horizon. Up on the cliff, to the edge of the woods, looking out onto the ocean. Settling down on the grass, Geralt holds her in warmth and solace.

“…thank-you,” she rasps. Geralt does not know her name. In his head, he calls her _Regina._ “This was always one of my favourite views.”

Geralt grunts. He feels so…so young. He doesn’t have a favourite view, not like this old woman. Her hair is short and white, curled. It tickles his nose. Darkly, he imagines that anyone who might see them now, would imagine he was her son.

“You’ll find love one day.” The queen states, out of the blue. “It will be your longest of loves and it will be shown to you through the song of a flower, Geralt of Rivia.”

The Witcher has nothing to say to that, though his grip tightens. The queen doesn’t seem to mind, brokenly humming a tune as her heart slows.

It sounds sad.

* * *

Sixty years later, Geralt is invited to a show in Oxenfurt. Yennefer sits beside him in a box-seat, hidden from most of the audience, giving them the best view in the house. He’s in his best clothes – courtesy of Jaskier – and drinking the best wine – again, courtesy of Jaskier – and the only thing missing is…

Jaskier himself.

“When is Jaskier getting here? He’s going to miss the start.” Geralt grunts, questioning Yennefer. He watches as a trio of women run on stage, all taking turns at talking to the audience, clearly hosts of some kind.

Yennefer looks at him in amusement. “He’ll be here after the opening act.”

“Is _he_ the opening act?” Geralt asks her, slightly ticked off when she only laughs at him, slouching further back in her seat to watch the women. Seeing he’s not about to get an answer from her, he looks to the trio again.

“-and the title act of the night, our very own Julian de Lettenhove, the university’s most beloved Professor of Music and bard extraordinaire!” The middle one says brightly, grasping hands with her compatriots as the audience whoops and cheers.

Geralt grunts. “Can’t be that good if we’ve never heard of him.”

“Oh, Melitele bless you, Geralt,” says Yennefer, patting his leg.

Even more ticked off, Geralt promises to leave if Jaskier doesn’t show up soon to convince him. _She said he’ll be here after the opening act,_ he thinks, promising himself to abandon the concert if Jaskier doesn’t arrive promptly.

“But let’s begin our opening act: Valdo Marx, everyone!”

“Ugh,” Yennefer makes a face, “I hate that prick.”

“Jaskier wanted the djinn to give him apoplexy and confirmed death of it,” informs Geralt, smug at catching Yennefer off-guard.

“Jaskier _knows_ that bastard? Fuck, I’d pay to watch our bard strangle him to death.” Yennefer says, not elaborating when Geralt wordlessly asks for an explanation. He concedes to watching Marx sing of a rapture, his description of deities and their monstrous counterparts _horrifically_ wrong. Geralt finds himself annoyed by his little bow at the end and his fake smile, too, his beard just…awful.

Two out of three of the hosts seem to agree with him, their smiles fixed as he brushes past them, Geralt getting a close-up view of how his hand graces their behinds. The singular cheerful host is the one to speak.

“The lovely Valdo Marx, everybody! And now, to our main showing, Professor Julian Alfred Pankratz, Viscount de Lettenhove,” she calls out, before exclaiming, “Better known to the continent as Jaskier the Bard! Sing it for me, now! _When a humble bard graced a ride along, with Geralt of Rivia-_ ”

Stunned, Geralt mutely listens to the whole audience begin singing _Toss a Coin to Your Witcher_ , a lute slowly getting louder and louder from whatever magicks the University employs. The instrument immediately draws his attention to the back of the stage, where Jaskier, in all his glory, steps forwards, the song briefly drowned out by cheers.

“ _And so cried the Witcher, ‘he can't be bleat’…_ ” sings Jaskier, his eyes travelling up to the very booth Geralt sits in. His eyes sparkle brightly, before he energetically gets into the rhythm of the chorus.

“Jaskier,” Geralt mumbles. “He’s a professor?”

Yennefer snorts her wine up her nose, wiping it away as she asks, “That’s all you took from this?”

_No._

Geralt is captivated by his bard as he sings the song that brought him fame and good reputation. Jaskier enjoys this environment, clearly, interacting with the crowd and even pulling a young noble’s daughter onto the stage, kissing her cheek fondly and calling her _darling._ Dressed all in purple, he’s in the richest of things Geralt has ever seen him wear, but slowly, over the course of the night, he loses item after item – starting with that silly feathered hat and ending with his doublet, leaving him in a sweat-soaked chemise, hair plastered to his forehead.

“We’ll have a recess now, if you don’t mind!” He calls out after a playful rendition of _The Fishmonger’s Daughter,_ of which he adlibs a few of his own verses that he claims haven’t been heard by anyone else on the Continent before – but that Geralt knows he’s heard him practice out in the wilds over a decade ago.

“I need my own bard,” says Yennefer, both morose and over-dramatic at the same time. She refills her goblet of wine, then makes up a third for a reason Geralt doesn’t place until he smells a familiar scent and hears a familiar heartbeat coming up the stairs to their rear.

Jaskier, stinking of sweat and lavender perfume, collapses on the ground between them both, attempting to stay out of sight. “Well, that was positively glorious, wasn’t it!” He eagerly accept the wine from Yennefer, gulping it down and lazily dabbing at the dribbles on his chin. His heart is pounding as he look to Geralt, gasping for breath. “Wasn’t it?”

“…hmm,” he grunts, not sure what to say. He was transfixed throughout the entire performance. It was lively and Geralt wants to watch him like this forever.

“Oh, thank-you, my dear. Positively wonderful review.” Jaskier reaches up to pat his arm in thanks, wriggling his eyebrows at a drunk and confused Yennefer. “You _really_ need to get fluent in Witcher, witch, if you’re going to spend the next few centuries being friends with him.”

“Who said I’d do that?” Yennefer mumbles around the lip of her goblet.

“Jaskier,” Geralt attracts his attention. “You never said…”

“That I was the title act? If you paid attention, you would have known from the start, Geralt.” Jaskier snorts, sipping at his wine. “I hope this hasn’t boosted your combined egos overmuch, because _Her Sweet Kiss_ is the start of Act Two, after some junior performances from my students. Oh, who am I kidding – Yennefer’s ego.” He looks at Geralt with an almost misty expression. “You’re just sad sometimes, Geralt. You need to love yourself better.”

“Why should I?” Geralt asks, too loose-lipped. Grimacing, he look away, not expecting Jaskier to reach up and twist his chin around. Jaskier is closer, now, leant up on his knees to stare at Geralt with the most serious expression Geralt has ever seen.

“Geralt, you are a fine man,” he says, brutal in his words. “The finest I have ever met. I love you for it – I always will, even when you abandon me on mountainsides and sleep with the witch behind me. But you need to learn to like yourself, nay – to _love_ yourself.”

“I am not worthy of love, let alone my own,” says Geralt. His stomach flip-flops as Jaskier presses a kiss to his forehead. He feels queasy, which must come from the wine. Kisses don’t belong to him and neither does love. Jaskier may kiss him – as it’s Jaskier’s way to kiss those he cares for, Geralt has found – but it is not something he deserves.

“It’s a useless endeavour, dandelion,” says Yennefer to Jaskier, who purses his lips before pressing them to Geralt’s forehead once more. He lets go of him after that, turning to speak to Yennefer for the rest of the break. He even remains on her side of the booth throughout the junior performances, rushing out when the trio of hosts wonder where he is out loud on stage.

“Sorry, sorry!” Jaskier rushes on stage, apologising to the women again quietly and kissing their cheeks before they depart. He looks onto the crowd, plucking at his lute in a way that gets them to quiet. “This second Act will have some of my ballads, I’m afraid, those sad ones and all that. Feel free to get drinks and sing along, if you wish, but be aware that your neighbours might want to hear these ones solo, as it were.”

He strums his lute, playing the tune for _Her Sweet Kiss_ – but rather than singing, he continues to talk.

“Most of you know how I travelled the Continent with the Witcher, Geralt of Rivia. I was his companion and his spokesperson, ofttimes saving him from the ugly nature of Humans who didn’t appreciate him for the work he chose to undertake. Over the course of many years, I, of course, became his friend. But more than that, I came to love him and worse, I watched as he entered into a relationship with Yennefer of Vengerburg which I wholly detested, until they parted.”

He strums a little harder, eyes clamped on the neck of his lute. Geralt listens to what he’s saying with all his focus, feeling like there is something just out of reach – something he needs to understand, but is missing the last puzzle piece of, so he might _see._

“Unrequited love. It’s a curse. I finished _Her Sweet Kiss_ when he ordered me away. This order came less than ten minutes after Yennefer broke up with him, mind.” The crowd chuckles as he does, flashing a mellow smile at the audience. “He apologised for his cruel words only after this song became popular. If I didn’t know better, I’d say he realised something from the contents, but he’s not much into lyric analysis. He’s here tonight, actually,” Jaskier says, looking pointedly up at their balcony. Yennefer waves widely and only once. “He brought his ex, too.”

More laughter. Geralt feels something like- not annoyance, but a cousin of it. It swirls deep down. Embarrassment, perhaps – but no, that last puzzle piece is forming in his brain. In his minds eye, Geralt imagines the words from _Her Sweet Kiss_ , listening as Jaskier laughs and apologises for his ramblings, singing the song for true.

_I love you._

_I always will._

_But you need to learn to love yourself._

How could Geralt have created feelings within Jaskier? How could he have done so? He is a heartless Witcher, a monster, a _butcher_ whose sole purpose is to kill and bring violence to the hearts of peaceful men. Jaskier was ruined by him. Jaskier wrote this song _because of Geralt._

Yennefer’s hand slinks around his wrist to his fingers, clasping them gently. Geralt is like stone, practically glaring at Jaskier as he sings.

How could _Jaskier_ love him?

Jaskier, who has a Human life, who is a professor in music, who _loves Geralt_. Jaskier, who hates kneeling by the fire to light it because ‘it gets his trousers dirty’. Jaskier, who will merely wrinkle his nose at selkiemore guts, but physically throw up if faced with the innards of a rabbit. Jaskier, who actually punched Filavandrel in the face for insulting Geralt, the last time they met since their original encounter.

_He loves me._

Geralt’s heart does not quicken and nor does it slow, when he realises that he knows Jaskier, that he cares for him. The thought of loving Jaskier is still somewhat out of reach, but if Jaskier, the pinnacle of _good_ , of _human_ – if Jaskier can love him, then surely Geralt can care for himself, too.

That is the thought that almost breaks him.

_I can care for myself._

Almost without thinking, Geralt stands up, exiting the booth and fleeing down the stairs. He travels by scent, following the trail Jaskier led to the stage. His bard is on the last line of _Her Sweet Kiss_ when he flings the lute out of his arms and grabs him, crushing their lips together the only way he knows how.

“ _Mffph,_ wh- **_Geralt?_** ” Jaskier rips them apart, eyes wide. For a moment he looks at Geralt in a dazed manner, before abruptly shrieking and rushing away, to where Geralt had thrown his precious lute. Immediately, Geralt groans.

“You care more about the fucking _lute_ than me?”

“Of course I care more about my lute!” Jaskier picks it up, audibly mourning as he traces a graze in the varnish. “You hurt her!”

“It’s just a damn lute, Jaskier!”

“But it’s _my_ lute!” Jaskier screeches, stomping forwards to slap him on the chest. “You are not allowed to come onto _my_ stage during _my_ performance to _destroy my lute!_ ”

“I came to kiss you, dammit, Jaskier!”

“And I don’t give a fuck, because your self-esteem is lower than rock-bottom and I don’t want to be in a relationship with you if all you’re here for is to make me less sorrowful about my unrequited feelings for _you!_ ”

Geralt roars, “I fucking _do_ love myself, you _prick_ and you showed that to me, you-” and Geralt stops, because he is having an epiphany.

Jaskier doesn’t seem to get that.

“You what? You _what_ , Geralt?” The bard challenges, one hand on his hip as he leans back, waiting for him. “Are you going to call my voice a fillingless pie again, by any chance?”

_You’ll find love one day._

_It will be your longest of loves-_

Geralt looks up to where Yennefer sits, asking, “Why did you call him dandelion?”

_-and it will be shown to you through the song of a flower, Geralt of Rivia._

Yennefer leans over the balcony, eyebrow raised. “Well, his name means ‘buttercup’, but in my opinion, he’s more of a weed. It’s a pet name I have for him.”

“A fucking flower.” Geralt says in a deadpan voice, before he turns to Jaskier and holds out his hand. “I will buy you a new lute, Jaskier.”

Jaskier’s eyes go wide, but he hands it over. “Why?”

“Because I love you.” Geralt says, before turning away from his bard and slamming the lute into the ground with an ear-shattering smash. “ _FUCKING DESTINY! FUCK IT! FUCK IT WITH A LUTE, FUCK IT WITH YENNEFER’S GODDESS-DAMNED PET-NAME, FUCK IT TO ALL THE HELLS! FUCK DESTINY, **FUCK DESTINY**_ -”

Behind Geralt, Jaskier blinks at him for a solid minute, then looks to the crowd with a hesitant face.

“…toss a coin to your witcher?”


End file.
